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Topic: Into the Archives (Completed) (Read 3522 times)

Charon headed straight for the morgue archives. He spent a lot of time down there amongst the old records. In fact, if he was not working on a corpse he could usually be found reading about someone else who had. There were plenty of files to be read, too. Years and years worth of records were stored down here. There were even files from long before the coming of the Emerald Skies, although it was the period just after the meteors fell that truly interested Charon. So much information was available down here, family lineage, local history, medical procedures, records of wars and plagues, even reference to the first undead. All of this and more could be discovered through careful inspection of the death records. And this was the greatest collection Charon had ever encountered. He was looking forward to spending years researching in the solitary tranquility that the archives offered him. Unfortunately, this would probably be his last journey through the stacks.

Charon started to examine the records looking for any information on centaurs or the unusual tattoo that he saw.

The room was huge, running the entire expanse of the building, but Charon was familiar enough with the layout of stacks that he could rule out entire areas. He suspected that he wouldn't find anything of worth in the section about nameless Humans found dead for example.

Truely, every detail that could be observed about every piece of dead flesh that passed through the building was recorded here in the stacks. Unfortunately, dead centuars were not exactly something that came through the City evrey day. As a matter of fact, they'd never come through this city at all, as far as the records were concerned.

The only thing Charon found of any relavence was that there were at least two dozen reports such as the one that he was just told to produce. How many times had Eril done this?

Barely a half hour had passed, but Charon was getting the feeling that in order to find any information of use, he'd have to look somewhere else. The offical records were clearly unreliable at best, and there was not one single mention of Centuar.

A sudden distant ruckus caught Charon's attention. It was coming from the direction of the Crematory. After just a moment, the clatter stopped, and the halls were quiet again.

Charon recorded the two dozen or so reports that he thought were suspect. He doubted anyone would ever be able to discover what had truly happened in any of those cases, but at least he could bring some attention to the problem. Folding up his notes carefully, Charon stashed them in his shoe. Just in case he ran into Eril or the half orcs he didn’t want them to find out about his research. That’s when he heard the commotion from the Crematory.

Was it the sound of combat? Charon’s heart jumped. Had the half orcs returned to silence Eril for good? It would be fitting. Perhaps the next corpse in the furnace would be Eril’s? … or Charon’s! Could they be coming for Charon as well? Of course, if those sounds were the half orcs killing Eril they would certainly come for him next. Charon’s heart pounded in his throat.

Should he try to hide here in the archives until it was clear, or should he investigate? If Eril was dead Charon might be able to retrieve information from his spirit before it passed over. Sometimes the spirits of the dead lingered for a while, especially if they had something they needed to say (OOC: Charon has Spirit Sense from pg. 124 of Heroes of Horror). This might be the only way to get the information he needed.

Charon took a deep cleansing breath… and rushed off down the hallway to investigate the racket.

Charon ran down the hallyway, through the crematory and to the office door. There was no sign of struggle in the crematory. It occurred to him as he reached for the handle that if something had happened in the office, the only way out was through the crematory. There was no one else in the crematory, which meant that if there was trouble, the trouble makers were either gone, or still in the office.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” a familiar voice said from behind Charon. Charon turned to see Eril. His body was shimmering translucent in the oil lamp light. “Neither would I stick around here. They are looking for something, Charon. They expected something in the ashes, and it was not there.”

Charon felt the weight of the small cylinder in his pocket. Surely this was what they were looking for. He turned to run, but froze in his tracks after just a half a step. He could not leave, not yet. Eril may have been corrupt in life, but now that he had passed his soul deserved a chance at redemption.

“Eril, is there anything that you need to tell me? Is there anything that you need done to ease your passing?” whispered Charon hoping that Eril would be quicker with his reply than the half-orcs would be with their search of the office.

Eril was calm, cool and collected, as usual. "I would recommend that you gather everything you may want or need and be on your way, this is no longer the place for you. There will be investigations, Charon, and I can guarantee they will not benefit you. I should not have involved you on this."

The apparition lifted an arm and extended a finger toward Charon’s Pocket. “There’ll be folks looking for that, both Half Orc and Centuar. It should not be found by the Orcs.”

Charon quietly shuffled out of the crematory and ran to his room. He was glad that his things were already packed. He pulled his satchel out from under the bed and slung it over his shoulder Moving to his desk he pulled the jar of dead flies out and unstopped it. Carefully Charon used the jar and stopper to pluck Scurry out of his web, catching him in the jar. Charon said to the spider, “I promised I’d find you a nice little garden, my friend”.

Charon scooped some papers, ink, and a quill into his satchel placing the jar on top. He ran back into the hall intent on exiting the morgue by the most direct route. Charon needed to find a room in an out of the way inn somewhere in the city, somewhere that half-orcs were not typically welcome. He still had work to do before leaving the city.

There was an inn on the wester side of the city Charon remembered called "The Whisper". It was an odd name for an Inn, and even odder was the fact that there was no alcohol served on the premises. It wasn't very popular amoung the noisy crowd.

“Ah, yes” thought Charon, “The Whisper would be perfect.” If only more inns were like The Whisper maybe he’d spend more time in them. The inn was well suited to his needs. It was a quiet place with quiet people who kept to themselves and kept their distance. Unfortunately to get there he had to travel through town … in the middle of the day.

Charon cringed at the thought of all the people that would be in the streets, bumping and brushing into him. He could almost smell the stink of their breath, their sweat, and other offensive odors. The living are a retched bunch. Sure the dead stank, but at least it was an expected stink, a stink that one could get used to. The dead smelled like the dead, period. The living, however, they are another story. They create their own individual odors based on environment, diet, grooming, racial trends, and other factors. It was something that Charon just could not get used to. In fact, whenever he had to travel in such a miserable environment he did so with a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth.

Charon tied his black handkerchief around his neck. He took a moment to plan a route to The Whisper. He wanted to get there by way of least resistance. He carefully plotted a course that should avoid the most densely populated areas. He pulled up his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose and he stepped out of the morgue and into the daylight.

The light of the sun had not yet reached it's brightest, as it was still morning. Also as fortunate, it was still fairly early, so the streets weren't all that busy.

Within a few moments, Charon was at the door of The Whisper.

The building was not very large, two stories, and only the width of perhaps a large home. The outside was a dull gray, with black trim. The front door was nondescript with a very utilitarian look to it. Plain flat wood, painted black, with a black wrought iron handle.

Charon pushed the door open. Inside there was a small room with a couple of doors, and a man sitting at a desk. The man was chubby, wearing a plain brown tunic and hunched over some papers. He peered up from his writing, and noticed Charon. "Hello," he said simply.

"Good day, sir". Replied Charon quietly. He kept back about a full arms reach from the desk. "I shall need a room for the night. Nothing fancy. Just as long as it has a desk ... or a table."

Charon's stomach growled, reminding him that he had not yet eaten. "Hmm, and something to eat as well. Preferably no meats or animal products. If possible." Charon managed an awkward smile, then remembered about the handkerchief covering most of his face.

Charon grabbed the key. With a silent nod of his head to the man behind the desk, he headed for the stairs. Charon would have to wait to eat. His work was more important. It is possible that Eril's body was already found. If so authorities would likely be looking for Charon. At the very least they would have questions. Worst case, the half-orcs got out clean and left Charon as the prime suspect. Not a very pleasant thought at all.

One hour. With luck it shouldn't take more than that to write up these reports, send them by messenger, get supplies, and get out of the city. But were to send them? Charon would keep a copy for himself.

One copy would be sent directly to the Council of Embar, although there is no telling if or how long it would take to actually get noticed by anyone of importance.

One copy must go to the morgue. But who knew how deep the corruption went? Could Eril be the only one involved in the half-orc's plot? Not likely. That meant that Eril was working under someone, someone who had power over him. Someone who right now was probably placing evidence that indicates Charon as the one behind all of this.

Charon had to send this information to another organization. He had to think of a group that was beyond the corruption at the morgue and that would act quickly to right the wrongs that had been committed. Charon loathed working with paladins and clerics, their mindless crusade to wipe out all undead did not sit well with his ethical outlook. However, the church of a good deity devoted to righteousness and law might be an ally in this situation. With any lucky they would fight “the good fight” here in Embar while Charon was out looking for the centaurs.

Charon stopped at the door to room eight. He opened the door and quickly slipped inside. Closing the door, he fumbled with the key to secure the lock. The sharp metallic snap was somehow reassuring. He rested his head against the door and let out a deep sigh. “I must do this. If I do not, then no one will”.

The room was spartan to say the least. There was a bed, a small writing desk, a small chest for traveler's belongings and a nightstand with a bowl, a glass, and a pitcher of water. As small rope-rug covered a small portion of the floor.

Charon placed his satchel on the bed. He carefully pulled the stopper off of Scurry’s jar, setting it at the top of the writing desk. Papers, quills, and the jar of ink were pulled out of his satchel next. He placed these on the desk for Scurry to guard. Finally, Collinsworth was removed and placed on the bed. Charon turned the skull so it faced the door. “You keep an eye out, Collinsworth” said Charon. “We’re not out of danger yet.”

Next he removed the papers he had folded up and placed in his shoe and placed then on the desk. Charon had made notes on these about the centaur’s tattoo and about each of the other cases he suspected Eril had been involved with. Finally he reached into his pocket for the small metal cylinder that he had removed from the centaur’s arm.

Charon placed the cylinder on the desk. Scurry skittered away to the far side of his jar, as if he were avoiding the object. “Hmm, you know something about this that I don’t?” Charon asked the spider. “I’d appreciate any information you might want to share.” Charon stared intently at the spider. “Yes, I know. That’s why I didn’t open it” replied Charon. “It might be trapped, or contain a poison or other dangerous material.” He picked up the cylinder and rolled it carefully between his finger and thumb. “Although, there might be a clue inside. Perhaps some message or a map scrawled on a tiny piece of paper?” The spider’s legs twitched. “Hmm? Ahh, yes. You are probably right. If what is contained in this cylinder was important enough for the centaur to bury it beneath his own flesh then it is important enough to secure it with some form of trap.” Charon placed the cylinder back on the desk. “It’s best to just hand it over to the centaurs. I’m sure that is what our tattooed friend would have wanted, so that is what we shall do.”

Charon got to work writing up three copies of the centaur’s death report… three complete and accurate copies that tell the truth about what he found. Once that was finished he began to write up three copies of an incident report. This report details how Eril woke him early in the morning to do a job for a special “client”. It describes the half-orc “Garn”, Garn’s half-orc accomplice, and the apparent deal they had with Eril. It further explains how and where Charon found evidence suggesting that this was not the first time this had been done. The report also gives details regarding Eril’s death at the hands of the half-orcs. In closing Charon indicates that he believes someone else at the morgue is involved, likely one of Eril’s superiors, and that it is possible that Charon is going to be set up for the crimes. Charon notes that by the time this report is read he will have left the city in an attempt to rectify the injustices done at the morgue and to clear his name.

As the last strokes of ink dried, Charon carefully folded each copy of paperwork roughly in thirds. He sealed the pages by applying a bit of melted candle wax where the pages overlapped, pressing his thumb into the wax to secure it. He laid them out on the desk, side by side.

Charon stood and stared down at the three simple looking pieces of paperwork. Would it matter? Would anyone even act on this? Or, perhaps this would spark a fire that would rage through the city, altering it forever! How deep did this go? Charon’s stomach growled. He had forgotten about how hungry he was. He would eat soon enough. He just had to send these off. One would be sent by messenger to the Council. One he would keep, just in case. He had decided not to send a copy to the morgue. It was too risky. If the report fell into the wrong hands they would have warning about what was to come.

The third copy had to be sent to someone in the city who would likely take action. The Perenezerath? No, they are not welcome in the city and, as far as Charon was concerned, are just as likely to be behind this as not. The Kere’Terek? Possibly, if there were a way to get in contact with them they might be an option. Then again if they were that easy to contact the Perenezerath would have dealt with them by now. The local clergy would probably be the best place to contact. Ideally a group of paladins, they are righteous and driven enough to see this through with minimal coaching.

Charon headed downstairs to talk to the innkeeper about hiring a pair of messengers and getting a bite to eat. “Watch our things, Collinsworth. I’ll be back shortly,” said Charon as he exited the room, locking it behind himself. He needed to consider his options. “Where can I send that third copy? Who could possibly care about this situation as much as I do?”